Astronauts Anonymous

In elementary school I had a crush on a boy who went to space camp. It wasn't his affinity for astrology that made me fond of him. I remember being terribly embarrassed about his absence from school for a week in Florida to pretend to defy gravity and squint through telescopes. The only positive thing I could think of was the possibility of eating space ice cream, which to me, is delicious, especially the Neapolitan. Other than that, the thought of him following in the footsteps of Neil Armstrong was a bit...out there.

However, as the years have rolled on, I've found myself wanting to recant my space camp chides. There have been many a sweet night's sleep on the deck at the cabin, the prelude to which have been Dad pointing out constellations as we stare at the Milky Way, visible from the spot Grandpa plotted so many years ago. I spent a memorable summer night with a few girl cousins outside the teen bunkhouse on a ranch in Antimony, UT and witnessed what was the most spectacular star show I've seen to date. Year in and year out there have been August nights with E and O, comforters spread across us on the front lawn when we've looked up at the endless heavens, stared off into the darkness and planned our futures (none of which included space camp, but perhaps they should have?)

The truth is, as much as I didn't want to be into space, I am. So, the other night when I had the chance to look through D Man's new telescope, I bundled up and bounded out. I took one giant leap for woman kind and was out on the driveway squinting into a telescope and studying the moon. Dad not wanting to give up the opportunity either, was right behind me. His reaction was probably the most priceless: "Oh my stars!" he gasped, eyes as wide as flying saucers. (Even with his naturally punny tendencies, he didn't realize he'd said it.) We all took turns, all in disbelief at what we could see. The moon seemed touchable, all craters and textures. Mountains and valleys. I resisted the urge to usher all on-lookers inside to watch October Sky, although it might have to be our next neighborhood cinema screening sometime soon. Perhaps in my free time this summer I'll look into Space Camp. Apparently all the cool kids are going. (N and O, I'll make sure there's a spot for three.)

in a galaxy far far away

It's Saturday. Having decided we're tired of City boys, A and I head east for the evening, towards Cheyenne. We take a right near Heber and follow the road arriving in Oakley just before sundown. After a lesson on geology and quartzite from a six year-old, I'm sitting on the floor playing Scrabble. M, (age 6) is spelling words like "armpit," and "library," and O (age 4) is laying tiles down to make the word, "eek." For the most part, M is following the rules: using letters from other words to spell new words, and asking me about double word score squares, etc. O has started his own game in his own corner of the board, his own Scrabble Universe. He spends a lot of time in his own little world, conjuring up all sorts of things, like this:

Donning an orange t-shirt with the words "Little Terror" in big turquoise letters written across his chest, his chubby cute-as-can-be fingers place down, Y, I, and T. "Yit." he says, like M and I know what page to find it on in Merriam-Webster. M gives me an eye roll, as if to sceptically say, Amateur. But we'll let it slide. I acknowledge him by copy-catting his eye roll and telepathically transporting the thought: Yes, but just this once. O has occupied himself by making sure all the letters stay squarely in their place on the grid. I turn towards him. "And what, exactly, is 'Yit?'" I ask. "It's a new planet. I just made it up. It's in the Tenth Galaxy," nodding very matter-of-factly. My shoulders shrug in the direction of M, who, on planet Earth, in the only galaxy I know anything about, is sitting on the floor of his house on a Saturday evening enjoying a game of Scrabble. He returns the gesture, draws a tile and the game continues.

Now, it's my turn. I spell something equally as brilliant as "armpit." Next up, O. To the planet (proper noun, but, we're letting it slide, just this once) YIT, he adds a D, an R, and an E, making it DRYITE. He looks at me for approval. "It's actually the planet DRYITE. See?" He points at the letters. I nod, (un)knowingly (there's a tenth galaxy?), but oh so amused at his imagination. "Aaaand..." he goes on, "the Dryitians (said like Martians) only eat things that are dry. Get it? Dry? Dryitians?" his hands open, palms up in a "well-duh" motion. Thoroughly amused I say, "Ohhh! I get it. I get it." In an almost-whisper, as if he was revealing the secret to a long and happy life on planet Dryite, in a galaxy far far away, he says, "And...(eyes growing bigger and bigger)...They never eat liquid." M and I laugh out loud. "But what if they want to go swimming?" (I thought I had him.) "They just...just...blend in!" He says, eyes the size of flying saucers. Realizing the sentence "They just blend in" could, in four year-old, be translated to, "Do I have to tell you everything?!" I give him another "Ohhh!" and then winked at M.

Dinner followed Scrabble. Big M starts a Spelling Bee with the boys, something very routine at their Oakley dinner table. I ask O to pass the katsup. "They don't have katsup on Dryite, you know." (I didn't.) This leads to a discussion about the blood of the Dryitians. Something about solids and liquids, but I didn't quite follow. He lost me at YIT.

And just like that, I've decided to ditch City boys altogether and spend all my time in the Country, eating hot dogs, having spelling bees and learning about distant galaxies from a four year-old.